


The Cashmere Train

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Humor, M/M, Post-Series, Yuuri's life-long cashmere kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Yuuri shouldn't even buy it, but he has to touch it only once to know that he's not leaving the store without it. He stands in front of the display for way longer than he probably should, rubbing it against his cheek and imagining what the deep burgundy will look like against Victor’s pale skin.When he brings it up to check out, the saleslady pastes on a smile and tries very hard to make it seem like molesting sweaters is completely normal and that she definitely hadn’t been reaching for the panic button.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ever notice how Victor's shirts are all low-cut? Because I did, and then this happened.
> 
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](http://rcmclachlan.tumblr.com/post/155551172667/ever-notice-how-all-victors-shirts-are-kind-of).

Yuuri shouldn’t even buy it. Victor already has ten just like it in his second closet back in Russia that’s filled to bursting as it is, but Yuuri has to touch it only once to know he's not leaving the store without it. He stands in front of the display for way longer than he probably should, rubbing it against his cheek and imagining what the deep burgundy will look like against Victor’s pale skin. 

When he brings it up to check out, the saleslady pastes on a smile and tries very hard to make it seem like molesting sweaters is completely normal and that she definitely hadn’t been reaching for the panic button.

The entire way home, he swings the bag merrily and thinks of how the butter-soft material will look rucked up over Victor’s belly when he’s napping. It’s real cashmere, which is something Yuuri’s never been able to resist. Growing up, his mother had to tear him away from so many sweaters and shirts that she used to threaten to start carrying electrical tape in her purse so she could keep his hands where she could see them. He’s pretty sure they’re banned from the SEVENDAYS=SUNDAY at Canal City Hakata for life.

He can’t wait for Victor to wear it so he can have an excuse to touch it, and he comes up with no less than twenty before he’s even halfway there. ‘Victor, I want a hug’ and ‘Oh, my legs seem to have stopped working, Victor, carry me around’ are decent, but the winner is definitely 'Victor, you should wear that while you fuck me through the wall, I don’t want you catching cold.' 

It’s foolproof. 

Not that Victor will even bat an eyelash if Yuuri starts groping him out of nowhere. Victor’s been trying to get him to be more handsy since they first got together; if anything, he’ll think all his not-so-subtle conditioning has finally paid off and he can finally stop the weird positive reinforcement kissing experiment he’s been running.

“I’m back!” Yuuri calls when he walks through the door, toeing off his sneakers next to Victor’s six pairs of Gucci shoes. He finds Victor in the living room on the couch, his phone in hand and typing something with one thumb. From her sprawl on his stomach, Makkachin greets Yuuri with a soft _woof_ , her tail thumping against Victor’s foot. Yuuri wanders over to scratch behind her left ear, which has long since gone deaf, and is rewarded with a tired lick across his wrist. 

“ _Okaeri_.” Despite saying it almost daily, Victor still drags the word out strangely, like it tastes bad but he can’t find a napkin to spit it into. “I woke up and you were gone. Where’d you disappear to so early?”

Yuuri squints. “I left at quarter to one.”

“So early,” Victor whines. He taps out something on his phone—probably to Chris—and then tosses it onto the coffee table, burying his free hand into Makkachin’s fur. “Well? What’s your excuse for abandoning your fiancé to the horrors of sleeping alone?”

It makes him flush with pride and pleasure, the way it always does, and the bastard knows it. “One of these days that won’t work.”

Victor grins, unconvinced. “Mmhmm.”

“I had to run some errands for mom. She’s got a list of things for me to do while we’re here," Yuuri admits, then holds up the department bag. “But since I apparently left you to _die alone_  in bed, I think you deserve a reward.”

“You got me a present?” The teasing smile on Victor’s face melts into pleased surprise. “What is it?”

“Hair regrowth tonic.”

The look Yuuri gets for that would turn a lesser man to actual stone. “I’m calling off the engagement.”

“All right.” Yuuri laughs and sits on the arm of the couch, right by Victor’s head. “You get to tell Phichit, then.”

Predictably, Victor’s skin goes several shades paler and he casts a wild, suspicious glance around the room. To this day, Yuuri still has no idea what Phichit said to Victor the first night they wore the rings. Phichit had pulled Victor aside with a bright and cheerful, “Go on ahead, Yuuri. I just want to talk to Victor for a second.” He’s almost sure it was some sort of shovel talk, but whatever it was, Victor came back to him a little green in the face with a hunted look in his eyes. Even now, all he’ll say about it is, “ _Hamsters_.” 

“Not even you would be that cruel,” Victor mutters, snatching the bag out of Yuuri’s hands and digging in. Yuuri knows the exact moment Victor feels the liquid softness of the cashmere, because his eyes go round with interest, and he glances up at Yuuri for just a second before turning his attention to the shirt he pulls out of the bag. “Oh, Yuuri. It’s beautiful.”

“I saw it and couldn’t resist.” Yuuri reaches over and thumbs the material, humming. Totally selfless gift on his part. That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. “Although I have no idea where you’re even going to put it. Your closet door back home barely closes as it is.”

Victor’s gaze goes soft and warm, the way it always does whenever Yuuri calls Russia ‘home’.

“The obvious solution is to just never take it off,” Victor says cheerfully, tilting his chin up for a kiss, which Yuuri is more than happy to give. “Thank you.”

Yuuri smiles, then glances around to make sure his sister isn’t lurking nearby so he can murmur, “You should try it on for me, check the fit, see which pants will go with it… although I think it’d look best without any, don’t you?”

Victor’s mild expression goes hot, and he gingerly gives Makkachin the run of the couch when he gets up, shirt in one hand and holding the other out to him. It’s like the first time in the onsen, every time, with Yuuri struck absolutely stupid by the fact that he lives in a reality where Victor Nikiforov not only breathes the same air as him but _wants_  him. Someday it’ll sink in. 

“A fashion show just for my Yuuri? It would be my genuine pleasure.”

And a pleasure it is, although even with Yuuri sobbing for him to go deeper Victor seems a little distracted. He spends almost as much time fiddling with the collar as his tongue spends in Yuuri’s open, panting mouth. Yuuri can’t even be mad about it, though; he’s physically incapable of taking his hands off the sweater from the moment Victor pushes him down onto their bed, and coming while the fabric slides over his palms is an experience he’d really like to repeat at some point in the near future.

They pay through the nose to have the sweater dry cleaned, but it’s entirely worth it, and when Yuuri gets it back he lays it out on their bed, safe in its plastic garment bag, for Victor to find. It’ll make it into Victor’s rotation of clothes and that’ll be the end of that story.

Days pass, and it’s a calendar filled with v-neck henleys and low-cut sweatshirts and that ugly-ass RU hoodie that Yuuri will set on fire if it’s the last thing he ever does in this life. Everything is navy and black and obnoxious red and white, without a hint of expensive burgundy in the forecast. Although he can’t complain, because it means Victor’s lovely throat is totally bared and vulnerable, and sneak attack neck kisses and licks never fail to make Victor go absolutely cross-eyed. 

It begins to strike Yuuri as odd that he hasn’t seen Victor wear the sweater since that first day, and he decides to bring it up one night when they’re trying Hasetsu’s oldest living chef’s latest attempt at spaghetti, and it's… well, there are certainly a lot of tomatoes in the dinner special. And omelette. And roe. And miso paste. Poor Kenji’ll nail it someday.

“Hey, what happened to that sweater I got you? I haven’t seen you wear it.” 

Victor chases a shrimp meatball around his plate. “Hm? What sweater?”

“The one I got you. The nice one. The cashmere one.” 

“Oh, that one. It’s around. I’ll wear it soon.”

But he doesn’t. It’s been thirteen days since Yuuri bought it and he’s running a cashmere-fondling deficit here. 

A few days later he brings it up in the one place he knows Victor won’t be able to muster the effort to make excuses: the onsen.

“Victor.” He’s curled into the man himself, letting the hot water of the onsen work out the ache in his calves. According to Victor, a vacation is no excuse to stop training. It’s possible something’s being lost in translation, because he’s sure that that’s exactly what a vacation is. “I was thinking about Chris’s birthday party next month. It’s probably going to be fancy—you know how he gets—and we’re running out of time as far as figuring out what to wear. You should wear that sweater I got you. It looks so good on you that you’ll probably steal the show right from Chris.”

There. A nice suggestion _and_  a compliment.

Barely stirring, Victor sinks deeper into the bath and trails wet, distracting fingers down Yuuri’s spine. “Oh, _Сахарок_. Clothes are on your mind at a time like this?”

“A time like w—”  

Victor’s fingers drift lower and brush against the soft, hot part of him that craves this every moment of every day, and Yuuri suddenly forgets whatever it is they’re talking about.

Once he’s regained the ability to walk, Yuuri goes to investigate, a little worried that Victor really _did_  lose the sweater, but a quick peek into the hell pit that is Victor’s closet away from home shows the sweater shoved in with the rest of his clothes: a single burgundy sleeve sticks out sadly from the glut like a flag of surrender. 

He tries not to be offended but that shirt was expensive. And a gift of love. That, and it’s just creepy to be holed up in a closet molesting the softness of the shirt without the body that’s supposed to be inside it. 

Sighing, he drops the sleeve from his face and yanks on it until the rest of the sweater slides into his arms. Even the clothes orgy it had been trapped in hadn’t been enough to crease the fabric, because it’s a _nice shirt_. Why doesn’t Victor want to wear it?

For a fleeting moment he slides back into the mindset of Katsuki Yuuri from over a year ago, when this one misstep would have meant that Victor didn’t want anything of his, didn’t love him, and was probably two seconds away from calling everything off and flying back to Russia without a backwards look.

Now, he’s just puzzled.

Maybe there’s something wrong with the material. Maybe it’s scratchy. Yuuri shucks his own shirt off, slips the sweater on, and moves around experimentally. Well, it’s a little too big for him, especially in the arms because he’s not a damn giraffe like _some_ people he could name, but the cashmere shifts against him like kitten fur, and not one part of it is itchy or uncomfortable. It’s like wearing a cloud. Suddenly he really doesn’t care why Victor doesn’t wear this thing because Victor’s never getting it back.

Adorned with his spoils, Yuuri follows his nose into the kitchen, absently rubbing his fingers over his chest, and spies both his mother and Victor at one of the stoves. She holds out a wooden spoon with some kind of sauced beef on it and Victor bends down low to take it gently between his teeth. He steps back, chewing thoughtfully, and then flashes her a big thumbs up. 

“That smells amazing. I wanna try,” Yuuri says, coming over, and he sees the moment Victor realizes what he’s wearing. Something that looks an awful lot like guilt ripples over his face and he attempts to hide it by taking the spoon and stirring the pot.

His mom smiles. “You can wait just like everyone else, dear.”

“How come I have to wait and Victor doesn’t?” He doesn’t even know why he bothers to ask. From the moment she met Victor, he immediately usurped Yuuri as the favorite son.

“You’ve had twenty-five years of my cooking, Yuuri, and you’ll be flying back to St. Petersburg soon. Let Victor have a turn,” she says mildly, turning the burner down to a simmer with one hand and stilling Victor’s stirring arm with the other. “Put the cover on the pot and let that cook for a while, sweetheart. Set the timer for ten minutes, then we’ll make the vegetables.”

Victor hastens to comply. “Can I help you with anything else, Hiroko?”

“Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she coos. “I honestly don’t know what Yuuri did to convince you to marry him—”

“Hey!”

“—but I’m so glad he did.”

As she bustles out of the kitchen, Yuuri watches Victor watch her go with the most wistful tilt to his mouth that Yuuri’s ever seen, like she’s walking completely out of his life forever. 

Not for the first time, Yuuri thinks of the woman smiling brightly in the photo on their dresser back in St. Petersburg. She’s beautiful, with Victor’s mouth and cheekbones, her dark hair blowing into her face by an unseen wind. Her arms are forever wrapped around a pale-haired man with kind blue eyes and a stern mustache, who holds her like she’s precious. And she is. Yuuri only has a name—Anfisa—but the casual bombs that Victor drops into conversation are made entirely of love. “Oh, my mom used to love mountains; she had all these framed pictures of them all over the house when I was a boy” and “My mom would’ve loved that dish” and “My mom didn’t want me to go into skating at first but she cried for an hour the first time I landed a triple axel” and “Sorry, just… my mom had the most beautiful hair, Yuuri—dark and soft, just like yours.” 

Yuuri hates that he’ll never know her, the mother that Victor thinks about all the time and will never see again. She must have been something.

As if privy to the fact that Yuuri’s thoughts have taken a downward turn somewhere, Victor steps up behind him and wraps his arms around him, settling his lips against the skin of Yuuri’s nape. He absently drags his teeth there. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

Yuuri blinks. “Huh?”

“The…” Those wicked teeth pull at the sweater’s collar. “Don’t you feel like you’re choking?”

Suddenly, all of Victor’s slutty, low-cut shirts make complete sense.

He turns in Victor’s embrace so he can wrap his arms around Victor’s waist and smile up at him. “No, not really. But then again, I don’t have a neck that turns me into a puddle whenever a stiff breeze blows by.”

To punctuate his point, he presses his lips to Victor’s throat and _sucks._ The noise that comes out of Victor probably hasn’t been heard on this planet since the Jurassic period, and Yuuri’s mother comes running back in to make sure that her favorite son-in-law-to-be isn’t being horribly murdered.

Before they leave for Russia, Yuuri goes back to the store and buys the same sweater in a scoop-neck style, because Victor really needs to get on this cashmere train. 

Getting Victor to _stop_ wearing it long enough for it to be washed becomes a whole new problem, because apparently Yuuri’s marrying a _four-year old_.

**Author's Note:**

> There’s probably gonna be a semi-sequel where it turns out Victor’s parents are alive and well and Yuuri loses his shit because he’d been under the impression that Victor was left on Yakov’s doorstep in a shoebox after his parents got hit by a plane.


End file.
